


we will collect dust and hold tears against our skin

by goldenfields



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: M/M, Yuta's POV, study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28956372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenfields/pseuds/goldenfields
Summary: From Osaka, to you.
Relationships: Dong Si Cheng | WinWin/Nakamoto Yuta
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	we will collect dust and hold tears against our skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fallenblues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallenblues/gifts).



> ### 井の中の蛙、大海を知らず - a frog in a well never knows the vast ocean.

There is an ache that comes along with the idea of leaving one thing behind. He wonders if he would ever get to experience the pain shared with the arrival of dread, if someone else’s departure would eventually cause his knees to buck in agony. He spares a glance at the soccer ball under his bed, wonders if it senses the incoming emptiness this room would soon have once he finishes packing the rest of his belongings, and thinks of the tears his parents have shed over the course of time. When he leaves, what will become of him? What will become of his family and the room he’s left behind knowing of the uncertainty that lies ahead?

He stands in the middle of the airport a few days later, carrying his baggages and his father’s tears on his back.

* * *

He thinks of the soccer ball he’s left back in Osaka as he continues to massage his sore muscles. The practice room’s blinding lights is a contrast to the fields he used to play in. The dirt was much more gentle against his skin, and kinder, too.

* * *

Doyoung’s family reminds him of his mother’s home cooked meals. They are kind and welcoming, and he accepts their hugs with a smile and perhaps a tiny hint of desperation leaking from the corners of his skin.

“This is nice,” Johnny tells him while they help in preparing the food. “I always love the holidays.”

He hums quietly and watches as Johnny carefully sets down the last plate onto the table with such gentleness that it reminded him of the arrival of autumn back home.

“I miss Chicago,” Johnny sighs.

He nods.

* * *

He wonders if it would always feel like this, if his limbs would always ache from the rush of adrenaline as they stare at the blinding lights from afar. The stage is small and cramped, and not like any other big stages they’ve seen before during their seniors’ concerts, but the thrill feels just the same. His legs would still shake after every performance, his voice scratchy and hoarse when he speaks into the mic, and his heart would remain breaking from within his chest the way taiko drums would shatter and break against the thin air, but he shall remain moving.

Would his passion still burn as bright as it does today when years dwindle into mere seconds, and he would finaly get to stand on the stage he onced promised his parents?

The baggages he brought with him along with his father’s tears now feel heavier against his back.

* * *

“My name is Dong Sicheng.”

He watches him from afar, careful and quiet and curious. He shakes his head when Ten nudges his side and spares another glance at the new trainee in front.

“It’s nice to meet you all.”

* * *

He does not cry when he debuts. Instead, he looks over to his friends and sees them glowing with pride. _This is my life now. This is who I am now._

“To the world, we are NCT!”

_Father, are you proud of me?_

* * *

He finds that Sicheng is beautiful like the blooming cherry blossom trees back home. Soft and gentle and lovely on every corner, and Sicheng fills him with a sense of gratification he’s always yearned for. He’s watched the clouds from home, observed every leaves swaying above his head, and listened to the sounds only Osaka could give, and yet none of them ever came close to the way Sicheng would hold his hand, his cheeks, his neck, his shoulders, and the rest of his skin.

“Hyung,” Sicheng calls. “Thank you.”

He entertwines their fingers under the table and lets their knees graze against each other in quiet.

* * *

There is an ache that comes along with the idea of leaving one thing behind. He wonders if he would ever get to experience the pain shared with the arrival of dread, if someone else’s departure would eventually cause his knees to buck in agony. He spares a glance at the abandoned microphone laying on top of one of the practice room’s speakers, wonders if it would sense the incoming gap that awaits the team, the confusion and the questions that will inevitably come along. What will become of them?

He doesn’t speak when Sicheng leaves for China, carrying his own baggages on his back and the tears of somebody else in his palms.

* * *

The soccer ball underneath his bed accumulates dust over the past years. It remains untouched for the next ones.


End file.
